A window on the southern side of the building was open and the mild night breeze drifted into the long office. A telescope on a tripod had been set up beside it in preparation of the eclipse, but now sat with a neglected look about it, as though it could sigh and mourn its being forgotten. The desks that had been clear a few days ago, subconsciously signifying a momentary and much needed break from work, were once again scattered with old printouts and scribblings taken from obscure files which they had occupied for years. Near one pile, a row of empty Boss Coffee cans from the vending machine down the hall was arranged in a slightly obsessive-compulsive fashion. An old enka record was playing on the hi-fi, which had been dusted off earlier that evening on a nostalgic whim, and a singer with a breathy voice waxed metaphorical on the subject of heartbreak.

In contrast with the sober tone of the recordings, Watari Yutaka hummed the melody absently to himself and tapped his pen to the rhythm as he attempted to concentrate on the riddle in front of him. However, his mind kept drifting.

To that night, twenty-two years ago. . . .

He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, sighed, put the glasses back on, and turned his mind once again to the problem at hand. The one that he had drawn a couple of figures next to — he couldn't remember who they were supposed to resemble — under the half-formed assumption that it might help him think. He sincerely believed in the notion that the two hemispheres of the brain could sometimes be more productive if they were occupied with two different tasks. In other words, a mentally physical exercise to encourage and increase the frequency of inspiration. It had worked many times before.

But not tonight.

"Argh. I must be makin' it more complex than it really is." He got up to stretch and his temple suddenly throbbed as though to prove him right. He winced. "Back in a sec, babe," he said to 003, and massaging the ache he walked over the medicine cabinet.

003 cocked her head once, then waddled over for a better look at the mess of mathematical formulas lying on the desk.

"I don't understand," he said as much to himself as the owl at the other end of the room. "I can feel it, the missin' key, like it's on the tip of my tongue, metaphorically speakin'. Like I . . . can't quite put my finger on it. I couldn't've forgotten. Granted, the whole thing was more or less an accident in the first place. . . ." He smiled. "I know. You're thinkin', what else's new, Watari? But it's almost as though . . ." Riffling through the bottles, he found the extra-strength aspirin and tapped two pills into the palm of his hand. He looked up at the soundproof ceiling tiles. "I don't know, really. As though a piece of my mind's gone missin' — No, more like . . . removed. And that's not somethin' you can get back just by thinkin' about it real hard, is it? You know what I mean?"

003 punched keys on the scientific calculator that had been laid to one side.

Watari was about to replace the bottle when a thought stopped him. He might need it later on. The way he worked . . . He slipped the bottle into the pocket of his lab coat.

He laughed. "Nah, I guess you wouldn't. Hell, I ain't even makin' sense to myself anymore."

Watari took another long look out the window en route to his desk. Something about the moon seemed to tug at him inside. He chalked it up to his excitement. The hour was getting closer, he could feel it. To him the face was starting to look a little yellowed, like bread toasting around the edges. "My imagination seems t' be runnin' wild t'night," he mumbled to himself as he stared. "All this talk about missing pieces. . . . This feelin' like somethin' big's out there, just waitin'. . . . They do say moons like this'll fill your head with hopelessly romantic ideas. And I suppose it's healthy every once in a while. Cathartic, you might say.

"To yearn for something . . . without havin' t' have a reason. . . ."

But rather than continue that thought he shook his head and rubbed his hands together with an enthusiastic, if somewhat reluctant, "Well. Back to work."

When he approached the desk 003 hurried to push the scientific calculator closer to the papers, hopping with the effort. Watari gave the solution displayed there a close look, then gave it another. He blinked. "Well, what do you know. That's it — that's exactly it!" He beamed, and scratched the little owl's head to show his appreciation; and she scrunched up her shoulders in pride and contentment. "What would I ever do without you, Zero-zero-three?"

He sat back down. Now that he had the solution to that problem . . .

"Now, what does it mean?"

—

"Yes . . . yes, sir, I see. . . . I understand. That's unfortunate, truly. But I'm afraid we can't help you tonight—"

Tatsumi held the phone away from his mouth for a moment to let out a sigh as the Earl of the Castle of Candles continued to plead his case in that affectingly mellifluous tone of voice he used when something needed persuading. "Yes, yes, I understood all of that completely," Tatsumi cut him off, "but it's impossible to get anyone out tonight. They've all been sent home . . . Well, I suppose that's always an option — but don't you think it would be rude to wake them? Unless you want me to take care of it personally—"

Naturally, the Earl protested.

"Then it must be able to wait until morning. . . . Yes. Yes, the chief appreciates the gifts. . . ." He glanced at the boxes of smoked salmon and top-grade teas and sweets from Osaka and Okinawa piled on the desk. He picked up one of the former and saw it was imported. Still, it couldn't have been too desperate a situation; the Earl hadn't included any hundred-year-old bottles of wine. He took a deep breath. "Yes, he likes the salmon very much. . . . Er, no, Chief Konoe is not here. It's just me. That is why I'm saying . . . I am aware of everything you've done for this division, and we're all much obliged.

"All right," he caved before he had to hear why it was so urgent again, "I'll get one of my best teams on it as soon as possible, but I can't say they'll be happy to be given a job in the middle of the night."

Naturally, the Earl wanted to know of whom that team consisted.

"Kannuki and Terazuma, of course, sir. I . . . I know you want Tsuzuki but I'm afraid that is impossible this time. He's been sent home . . . No, he wasn't feeling well. . . . No, it's not that serious, but I'm not going to . . ." He rubbed his temple as the man on the other end started to whine. At this point it was no use arguing. "Look, I'll see what I can do. Would that satisfy you?"

That seemed to reassure the Earl somewhat, though Tatsumi could tell he remained skeptical, as his overly genial tone implied. It was gracious of him to accept that Tatsumi would try to fulfill his wish. "Thank you, sir," he said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Good-bye."

He hung up, and the dark look momentarily returned to his eyes. Watson, the Earl's decaying butler, took a step back seeing that, and rubbed his tiny hands together nervously. "Well, Tatsumi-san," he said in his wavering, teeth-rattling manner, "are you going to take Hakushaku-sama's case?"

Tatsumi looked down at the tiny skeletal man, who tonight was wearing a motorcycle helmet and kneepads in addition to his black suit. His bike, which was about the size of a Power Wheel and still too big for him, complete with a sidecar, was parked next to Tatsumi's desk.

"I don't see that I have a choice," Tatsumi told him.

"Oh, good. I mean, I am sorry about the inconvenience, sir. Hakushaku-sama really does appreciate everything the Shokan Division does for him," Watson said with conviction. "He doesn't mean to be so forceful all the time."

Tatsumi smiled. "I wouldn't say he was too forceful for someone of his kind or position. Actually, childish is what came to mind, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"Not at all," Watson said with a chuckle like dry twigs snapping, "he's that too, sir. An endearing trait if I do say so myself."

"I can't help but think he reminds me of someone at times like that."

"Hakushaku-sama says the same thing, sir. You wouldn't happen to know what he means?"

"I wonder," Tatsumi said, but in truth he paid the question little mind. He sat down on the corner of his desk and reached for the phone. "Well, I suppose I should call the chief and inform him of the situation." Resting the handset on his shoulder, he opened a box of macaroons that sat on top of the pile.

Polite to a fault, a hesitant, "Ah," was all that came from Watson as he stared lustfully at the box of confections. Tatsumi held it out to him while the chief's home telephone rang.

—

Meanwhile, in Hisoka's apartment all was calm. It seemed Tsuzuki had finally been able to get comfortable. Hisoka had decided on some whim to bring his partner here, to offer him his bed, perhaps with the foresight that Tsuzuki might need him sometime during the night. It was preferable to staying at Tsuzuki's anyway, in clothes that smelled like a drunkard's.

The outfit in question hung on a towel hook in the small bathroom, airing out. Despite the side effect, Watari's stain-removal formula had worked wonders, even to the point where the shirt could be considered clean. It was just that smell . . . It lingered on his skin, lessened but obviously present nonetheless even as he soaked in the tub. Hisoka pushed it from his mind, concentrating on the good feelings the evening had left him with. His coworkers laughing and arguing over a delicious dinner, for example, even though the subjects often left him flushed with embarrassment — a trait he was not particularly proud of at times like this. But at a time like this he didn't want to think. The lapping of the hot water against him when he moved was the only noise, and it soothed him thoroughly. Outside the sound was the gentle hush of an eternal spring, free of annoying crickets and cicadas that always used to keep him up on summer nights.

After a while, when he began to feel drowsy, Hisoka dried himself off and threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and resigned himself to a night of stiff-necked sleep in the armchair.

He was surprised to see Tsuzuki awake and sitting in it.

Tsuzuki flashed him a smile. "Couldn't get to sleep."

After a moment, Hisoka realized he was staring, and stopped. "Are you feeling any better?"

"I'm not quite as nauseous. And it doesn't hurt as much when I sit up."

Tsuzuki put on a brave face. He couldn't fool himself for long, though. "Honestly," he pouted, "I wish I were dead."

Coming from an expert on pain and suffering, Hisoka was hard-pressed to buy that evaluation. "You don't think you're overreacting just a bit?" he said. "Like Watari-san said, it happens to the best of us."

"Not to me it doesn't. I have an iron stomach."

"I find it hard to believe you've never eaten anything that disagreed with you."

"Plenty of times. I've just never gotten sick. I'm telling you this isn't like me."

"I know."

It wasn't just that he could sense it, the sincerity of Tsuzuki's emotions. In all the time Hisoka had known his partner, he had seen him eat such things in such portions and combinations as to give anyone more than just an upset stomach. Never once had Tsuzuki complained. It was a little odd, he had to admit, but surely there was a first time for everything, even in the land of the dead, and there was nothing strange about that.

He looked over to see Tsuzuki's gaze fixated on him, and became self-conscious.

"What?"

"This is really nice of you, you know that? Staying with me and everything."

"Yeah. So?"

Tsuzuki ran a hand through his bangs. Was it his condition or Hisoka's imagination, or did he actually, for a moment, look timid? "It's just usually the other way around, that's all," he said. "It feels nice to have you concerned about me. It's not exactly like you. . . . It's kind of cute."

As he always did, Hisoka blushed. But the resentment he would have felt hearing the same thing in the daylight hours, under more normal circumstances, was absent. Nor did he miss it. He was at a loss.

He looked away. "Oh," he said.

"No sarcastic comeback?"

"I can't think of one."

Tsuzuki chuckled. There was no longer anything teasing in his smile, or his sideways look, only sincerity when he said, "I really do appreciate everything, you know. Hisoka."

Then his smile vanished. "What's that smell?" he said.

"W-what smell?" Hisoka stammered. He hadn't been watching, and now suddenly Tsuzuki was standing and leaning too close for his comfort level.

"It smells good." Tsuzuki followed his nose to Hisoka, who quickly backed away — but in vain. Tsuzuki casually grabbed his arm. He brought his face close and Hisoka could feel his breath warm on his neck. It actually felt rather nice. "You smell good," Tsuzuki said. There was a certain lustfulness in his voice. The blood rushed to Hisoka's face. "Like . . . Wild Turkey. . . ."

Hisoka rolled his eyes. Some things never changed.

"Aren't you supposed to be sick?" he started to say, but in backing away he overestimated the distance between himself and the bed. The back of his knees hit the end, and he was so taken unawares, the next thing he knew he was lying on his back.

With Tsuzuki on top of him.

There was utter silence for a long moment save for the dying groans of the mattress, which faded quickly and left them all alone, staring at each other. Tsuzuki's crimson eyes, dark in the dimly lit room, that had been widened with the shock of being pulled off his feet, narrowed gently, as though to be accompanied by a knowing smirk. But there was no knowing smirk. His expression was very serious, if a little bewildered, when he said, "This is awkward."

Awkward? That only began to describe the situation for Hisoka, who felt veritably trapped beneath his partner . . . and not, he was almost ashamed to admit, in too bad a way. Tsuzuki's hands rested on the mattress on either side of Hisoka's head, his bangs falling forward out of his eyes, which looked tired yet boyishly fresh at this late hour. Hisoka didn't have to look down to see Tsuzuki was straddling his legs; the warmth and pressure of his partner's limbs he could feel through his jeans. Hisoka had never been one for physical contact, however he found tonight he didn't much mind the proximity, laced with the unspoken-of tension of their six years together. He found himself watching Tsuzuki's lips. He turned his head when Tsuzuki did to where his sleeve was still captured in Hisoka's unwitting fist — which he immediately released. It was sheer ridiculousness now that he thought of it, forced even, what had just happened. It was just like one would expect it to be. . . . "Hisoka," Tsuzuki began softly, "I didn't . . ."

"No."

Tsuzuki looked back at his partner. "Huh?"

Hisoka had turned his eyes away. "No, I don't believe this," he said to himself. His eyebrows furrowed. "It's too easy."

"What are you talking about?"

Hisoka squeezed his eyes shut. "It's too obvious!" Anyone could see that. This situation was . . . "Unoriginal."

"Hisoka."

Hisoka opened his eyes. And meeting Tsuzuki's he caught a glimpse of a longing in his partner's aura. The trite quality of their positions was pushed from his mind by this sensation, which he supposed he found mirrored deep inside himself somewhere. It was quickly rising to the surface regardless of where it came from as Tsuzuki ever so slightly tightened the gap between them; and Hisoka held his breath and the look in Tsuzuki's heavy-lidded eyes made his insides feel like a rendition of Debussy's "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun". . . .

Then Tsuzuki's stomach gurgled.

"Sorry," he sheepishly began, but then the gurgle turned into a growl, which became a rumble. There was a miniature earthquake taking place in his insides.

Needless to say, the intimacy of the moment died a sudden death.

"That is it. . . !" Hisoka sighed and pushed Tsuzuki off. "Come on, Tsuzuki," he ordered, standing and reaching for his denim jacket.

Tsuzuki reluctantly followed suit. "Where are we going?"

"Back to Watari-san's office."

"Huh?"

"For a second opinion. There has to be something he can give you," Hisoka said as he grabbed Tsuzuki's wrist and pulled him along with all his strength. He added under his breath, "I am not going to let your indigestion ruin the rest of my night."

"Hisoka, have you been working— Ow!" Tsuzuki complained as Hisoka unintentionally pulled a little too hard. He was keeping an unkindly fast pace. "Hey, slow down," he whined. "I'm suffering, remember?"

When they reached Watari's lab, however, the uncharacteristic silence hit them as hard as though they had run into a wall. No greeting was called out as they entered, nor could they hear the clacking of a computer keyboard or experiments being conducted or anything they expected when they dropped by unannounced. Tsuzuki momentarily forgot about his stomachache, and Hisoka braced his mind. Hackneyed as the expression might have been, they would have agreed the office was quiet as a tomb.

"Watari-san?" Hisoka called out uncertainly.

"Maybe he's gone to the cafeteria," Tsuzuki said.

Sure, it must be something like that, Hisoka thought when they didn't see Watari in the first room. We'll just wait here until he comes back.

Then, as one, they spotted him lying on one of the white hospital beds next to an open window, stretched out as though for a nap. Hisoka moved to wake him up, but Tsuzuki held him back, his expression suddenly sober. It took Hisoka a moment to understand why, and when he did his breath caught in his throat.

Watari wasn't asleep. He was dead.

—
tbc